There's
something electric about summer nights. The way that they seem to
breathe and swell into enormous pockets of navy blue bliss is
incomparable to the bleak water-coloured twilights of winter and
spring, when everything is still too fragile to be able to withstand
the heavy vibrancy of a stunning summer sunset.

The stars
too, they seem to crowd down on the earth during the summer, adding
to the heaviness as they listen in on the quiet. They're a lot more
confident when the sun sees it fit to shine down on earth, tagging
along like children following their teacher at a museum. ("Remember,
please don't touch the displays!")

It's
rather surprising too, how they maintain a sort of constant
brilliancy. Wherever you are, you can always depend on a good summer
night to make you feel as if the world is perfect― as if you're
complete; the stars being the pattern on a security blanket of orange
and purple and blue that makes you feel as if there's nothing wrong
in your life, and that there never, ever will be. ("But
miss, it's just so pretty!")

I really miss that feeling.

My last summer night was four years, three months, and seventeen days
ago. It was beautiful; I remember it clearly: Simon and I were
napping under an old oak tree by the power lines, singing into the
sunset, catching fireflies under the moon, and laughing at the
stupidest things until our stomachs hurt.

I miss Simon too.

Chances are he's enjoying another summer night right now, with some
other person― hopefully committing it all to memory, seeing as it's
all that I have now.

Photographs really can't do the summer justice. You can't capture
the pulse of an evening in a picture. You need to remember
everything; the sound, the feel, the taste of the night―
they're all crucial, all fundamental in its remembrance.

But then that's the same with anything.

Hopefully Simon has more than pictures.

I really wish I knew how the summer nights look right now; I want to
see what he sees. New stars are constantly being born (like teardrops
on a pillow), and since I've been sewn into the sky, my perspective
has changed.

Sometimes I can see Simon, all the way down there, on that pretty
little blue puddle which used to be my home. Although somewhat alien
from up here, it's comforting to have it in sight.

But I miss the orange and the purple of the summer; there aren't
any seasons up here.

One day, Simon will join me, and take away some of my loneliness― a
happy occasion, but rather bittersweet. I don't want to see his
smile fade into a little ball of light― he needs to remain whole
for me, which isn't possible up here; memory is all that persists.
(I would know.)

He needs to stay down there, live for the summers of his life, and
revel in the security of a humid, enchanting midnight like the one
that we had over four years ago.

I'll watch over him.

I'll be his security blanket, and make his life whole from a
distance, comforting him on those long summer nights.

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